On (Not) Writing

If you could compile a list of truthisms about me, distill the list to an almost-syrupy texture of pure extract, and brush it gently across a top ten list, the first position would be filled with handsome.  But the second position would be occupied by a scrawl of "seasonally bummed out," and only because "depressed all winter" sounds desperate.

Mars sunset, or my view of humanity November - March?

Of the confectious side effects present in my depression-syrup, probable the one nobody notices at all is that I don't write.  This is because it is no different from when I'm happy, but that's outside the scope of this blog post.

In my mind, writing is an effortless, lilting melody of stress relief, while I'm doing it.  That's about 1% of the time.  The other 99% of the time, when I'm not doing it, it's a chore that must be planned for, executed flawlessly, edited mercilessly, and which will still end up being unfunny or boring to everyone that isn't me.  The return on investment seems small, and yet - here we are.

It's already been like nine months since I blogged.  After that post, I gained weight back, spent a summer full of awesomeness with my kiddo and friends, lost most of the weight again over late fall, and now it's a year later and the only thing that's really changed in my life is my hairline.

How my hair doesn't look.  The rest, however, is mostly accurate.

There have been days full of joy, late night talks that seemed to plumb the depths of some hidden universe, times to hold on, and times to let go.  It's been life.  It's one more year down, and it seems like the choices and stories that used to define every week of my younger years are more and more slipping into legend and myth.  Everything feels so nominal.  Steady sailing, moving on.  I suppose "wisdom" is defined by recognizing the peace in your life as a gift, rather than boredom, but I get so restless with these endless days of... rest.

Pictured: John's First World Problem

As it stands, I'm living at home with my parents.  Glamorous or not, I'm lucky to have such generous people in my family tree, who are affording me a ridiculously lucky chance to get my financials in a row.  In a year or so, I may even be house hunting.  Who knows?

What little romance has drifted in and out of my life has been graciously accepted, gently held, and gracefully sent on as it comes.  I can afford no port for other peoples' storms, it seems, until my own berth is secured and battened down.  It's sad, but it's a good lesson.  Those who don't learn from history, doomed, etc., blah blah blah.  This is life.

Until such time as I feel prepped to really tackle the world head on, I suppose I'll continue to do my best at being available to others' needs, paying off my debts, and taking better care of my body.  It's a time of transition, but the pace feels like stagnancy.  Another great lesson to learn - not all growth is accomplished through quick and flashy bullshit.

Sometimes, you just have to stay still.  

For a little bit.